


Little Benjamin

by Magpie14



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Play, Corporal Punishment, Domestic Discipline, Gen, Infantilism, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Sexual Age Play, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-13 10:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpie14/pseuds/Magpie14
Summary: Since being classified as submissive at thirteen, Benjamin Moss has spent his life trying to survive in a prejudiced society. He is eventually arrested and charged with petty theft and drug trafficking, sentenced to 7 years at a Submissive Correctional Facility, where abuse is common and conditions poor. One year into his sentence, and Ben is unknowingly transferred onto the Adoption Program. Will he fall in love with his new life, or simply use it as a means of escape?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains non-consensual spanking and corporal punishment, as well as non-consensual infantilism. If you don't like, don't read. Comments are much appreciated xx

I woke up to the sound of shouting. Si and Matt were at it again, their voices becoming louder and more aggressive, echoing through the empty corridor and cells. New voices started to join in, annoyed at being woken up before the 6am alarm.

I buried my head into my threadbare pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but I knew it was no use. Another day in the hell hole had begun. I rolled onto my back, counting in my head to see how long it would take for the guards to come. It was 49 seconds when I heard the grating noise of the steel door at the end of the corridor come to life, signalling the guards arrival. I rolled onto my side to better see the action, catching eyes with Mike, my cellmate, as I did so.

Neither of us spoke, knowing better than to draw attention to ourselves, but we shared a look when we saw it was Roberts and Delaney on duty. We knew bad had just gotten a whole lot worse.

Most people had gone silent at the sound of the door, probably rolling over and pretending to be asleep, but Si and Matt were too angry and riled up to notice. If anything, they had gotten louder. Their cell was across and only a few down from mine and Mike’s, giving us an unobstructed view when Roberts pounded loudly on their bars with his baton. They both jolted at the noise, jumping away from each other guiltily. Their faces drained of colour when they turned to face the large, domineering figures of Roberts and Delany.

Roberts is notorious for his love of humiliation, believing a ‘healthy dose’ is good for inmates, even when the infraction is minor. He stands well above six feet, and although strong and well built, is leaner than the slightly shorter but stockier figure of Delaney. Delaney is unforgiving and believes strongly in the use of corporal punishment, with few ever making a return trip to his office for punishment. Out of all the guards, they are the most feared among inmates, with heads dropping as soon as they are sighted in the corridors, and trouble rarely occurring in their vicinity. Neither are usually on morning duty, and never together. I think I would have been sick if I was in Si or Matt’s place. They didn’t look far off to be honest.

Neither guard said anything for a good minute, letting the deadly silence and fear wash thoroughly over both Si and Matt. When both resembled ghosts and had started to shake, Roberts began to speak in his cruel, mocking tone.

“Rather early for such a heated argument boys, don’t you think?” He paused and I watched as Si nodded quickly, fiddling nervously with his nightshirt sleeve. Matt was frozen, unable to move.

“I heard from Brownley that you’ve had a few arguments recently. Haven’t you?” He asked coldly, whilst Delany began to unlock their cell door. This time he didn’t wait for an answer, his voice becoming even colder as he spoke again, “Well, I don’t think you’ll be arguing again any time soon.”

I watched, hardly breathing, as Delany went into the cell and grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks. He pulled them into the corridor, in full view of everyone, and without speaking stripped them of their nightshirts, leaving them naked and shivering. He beat them with his belt side by side, making them stand straight and still, calling out the number and thanking him after every stroke. After the fifth I turned away, unable to watch anymore, staring instead at the blank wall. After the ninth I covered my ears and buried under my thin blanket to try and block out the noise. I don’t know how many strokes they were given, but it felt like the beating went on for hours, although it had probably been less than twenty minutes.

When the guards had long since disappeared, the 6am alarm finally blared. Mike and I made our beds without talking, and stood silently by our cell door for inspection. I didn’t look over at Si and Matt’s cell, although I could hear faint whimpers and the occasional pain-filled gasp. The corridor, which had been unusually quiet, fell to an eerie silence when the door at the far-right hand began to creak open. I held my breath and stared straight ahead, listening to Roberts’ voice bark out reprimands and orders as he moved down the line, inspecting every cell and inmate.

Ours was the eleventh cell on the left, and I felt Mike stiffen when Roberts stopped outside, his shiny black boots catching my eye and making me feel inadequate in my bare feet and oversized grey nightshirt. He didn’t look at us straight away, reading his clipboard and checking something off before finally lowering it and unlocking our door, barking “Corners,” as he did so.

We didn’t need telling twice, scurrying to our designated corners, opposite our beds, noses and toes pressed against the painted breezeblock. He was much more thorough than most guards, checking every drawer, pulling down our two posters and tossing both sleeping pads on the floor. I winced internally when I heard him push all of Mike’s precious carved animals off the shelf above his bed, but I didn’t dare move or make a sound.

Luckily, there was nothing contraband in the cell, which he was eventually forced to admit. If I was being honest though, I wished he would spend longer tearing apart the cell, anything to prolong the next stage of inspection.

“Moss. Get here,” he barked.

I turned quickly and hurried over to where he was standing, next to Mike’s nightstand. I nearly tripped over the mess of bedding, books and toiletries strewn across the floor, and he glowered at me dangerously.

He didn’t speak, just looked at me expectantly, and I hurriedly removed my nightshirt, standing before him naked.

“Open.” He commanded. I opened my mouth, trying not to gag and he pushed his fingers in my mouth, checking under my tongue and the sides. Most guards just shine a light in and do a cursory look, sometimes asking you to lift your tongue.

Finally, he took his fingers out, wiping them dry on a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Bend over and spread.” My heart sunk, but I turned to face the corridor and bent over, spreading my cheeks to present myself for inspection. There was no snap of disposable gloves, no opening of a bottle of lube, no warning at all. His cold, dry, calloused finger stabbed into me. I gasped and yelped out in pain, earning myself a sharp smack across the thigh in return. My eyes watered and I bit my lip, silently trying to count in my head, wishing I was anywhere else. He probed my insides for far longer and far more thoroughly than usual, before pulling out painfully and smacking me hard again.

There was no gentle pat and “well done” like Davison usually gave, or even Hanley’s bored “off to the showers then Moss”; just another, still harder smack and a terse “Shower.”

I didn’t need telling twice, mumbling the required “thank you, sir,” and rushing out of the cell and down the corridor before he could call me back. I went through the open-door Roberts had come through and hurried to join the queue of other naked boys and men waiting for the showers in the washroom.

Nobody spoke, which I understood when I saw Delaney at the front of the queue, overseeing the showers and occasionally sending someone back with a smack if they didn’t meet his standards. 

I was near the front of the queue when Mike joined me, his cheeks still wet with tears and his bottom a hot, fiery red. He avoided my eyes and didn’t speak, so I knew he didn’t want to share what had happened after I left.

When Adam, a man in the cell a few down from mine and Mike’s, had finished washing and had been approved by Delaney, I joined the row of other inmates hurriedly trying to wash as thoroughly as possible. The water was cold, meaning nobody wanted to spend longer washing than necessary. The warden said we get cold showers because they’re healthier and we need ‘toughening up’, but everyone knows it’s because the sub classifications are given less funding than doms and gens, and they don’t want to waste money on hot water.

As far as the general public are concerned, any sub who breaks the law is worthless, only good for slave labour at the mines and factories. After all, what good is a sub that doesn’t follow the rules? It wasn’t until about ten years ago that the concept of rehabilitation for subs was implemented, although it remains largely unpopular and underfunded. I was lucky to be sent to Marshall Sub Correction Facility really, anything is better than spending the rest of my life trapped underground in the mines, where brutality is even more common, and food very scarce. Most subs die within their first three years after being sent to the mines, with chances of survival only slightly greater at the factories. We are reminded daily to be ‘thankful’, grateful for our ‘opportunity to be reformed’. I know that things could have been a lot worse, but I cannot be thankful for being beaten and humiliated, treated like a lesser human being because of my classification.


	2. Chapter 2

When I had scrubbed myself twice all-over and was shivering uncontrollably from the cold, I proceeded, soaking wet with my hair dripping, to be inspected by Delaney. He made a show of checking behind my ears before handing me a scratchy off-white towel, and telling me to go back to my cell and get dressed.

When I walked back through the cell corridor there were still inmates waiting to be inspected by Roberts, and I could hear crying and the sound of a whipping going on further down the corridor. I hurried into our cell as fast as I could, not wishing to linger. The cell looked as though a tornado had torn through it, and I pulled on my required plain grey t-shirt, underpants and dark blue dungarees as fast as I could before begining to tidy away the mess. I didn’t put it past Roberts to hand out punishments for cells that were still messy by the end of inspection.

When Mike joined me, wrapped in his own towel and shivering, I had finished righting most of the room and was pulling on socks and my tennis shoes.

“Roberts still hasn’t finished,” he whispered to me as he bent down over his dresser, retrieving his own set of clothes, identical to mine.

“I know, at this rate we’re gonna miss breakfast,” I whispered in reply, my stomach choosing that moment to rumble loudly. I had no way of knowing what time it was, we didn’t have a clock in our cell, but I knew it must be past 7, which meant we would likely miss any chance of breakfast.

Once we were both dressed and had made sure the cell was spotless, we sat silently on the end of our beds and waited for Roberts to finish. The bell signalling the end of breakfast and the start of lessons had already rung by the time he visited Si and Matt’s cell, which he had left till last. The corridor was silent except for the quiet rustlings of the last few inmates getting changed after their showers, which meant everyone could clearly hear as both Si and Matt were spanked and roughly inspected. When Roberts finally finished his inspection he told them loudly, his voice echoing down the corridor, that “bad little boys don’t deserve clothes or the luxury of being clean”. He dragged them out of their cell by their necks and marched them down the corridor past everyone, both of their faces covered in tears and snot, their bottoms and thighs red and blistered.

“Everyone out and get in line!” He barked, the cell doors all rolling open as he pressed his controller. We all hurried to obey, lining up silently behind Si and Matt, staring at the floor and not daring to make eye contact.

“You can thank Simon and Matthew here for missing your breakfast,” he paused, and nobody spoke, “thank them!” he roared, inciting a nervous chorus of “thank you” to erupt. Then he continued, “You are all to walk _silently_ to class, and apologise to your instructors for your tardiness. March!”

We went, Matt and Si in front. Nobody spoke, terrified that Roberts would suddenly appear and hear us. People broke off from the line gradually when we reached the school block, each joining their separate classes, which meant by the time we reached the end of the block there was only me, Mike, and three others, George, Fisher and Logan left. Logan, who was in his late-twenties and the oldest of the five of us, went first.

He knocked hesitantly and we waited nervously in silence before the door opened abruptly and Mr Henderson appeared. Mr Henderson was strict, like all the instructors, but he was also fair, only handing out punishments when earned. As far as instructors went, he was one of the better ones. He was tall, always smartly dressed, and young – probably 26 or 27, with golden brown hair that curled slightly at the edges, and glasses that gave him an intelligent, serious look.

“I wondered why I was missing five students this morning,” he said, looking over the five of us sternly, “I would hope you haven’t gotten yourselves in trouble before lunchtime.”

“No sir,” Logan rushed to explain, “Mr Roberts.. he, err.. he took a bit longer doing inspections this morning, sir.”

“And why would that be?” Henderson asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at each of us in turn. None of us answered, not knowing what to say other than “he’s a sadistic prick”, which wouldn’t have gone down well.

After a minute of silence Henderson sighed heavily, “all right then boys, take your seats -  _quietly_ ,” he stressed when George tripped and banged into Lucas’s desk in the front row.

“Benjamin.” I froze at the sound of my name, turning to look at Henderson nervously. He crooked his finger at me, and I made my way slowly over to him, wondering what I had done. Henderson always called me by my full name, Benjamin, rather than my preferred ‘Ben’ or even my last name, Moss. So, although it wasn’t unusual, I got the familiar feeling of being in trouble when my full name was called.

When I reached him he didn’t speak, just reached out and undid my dungarees strap, which I hadn’t realised was twisted. I was lucky Roberts hadn’t noticed, I would no doubt have gotten another demerit. He straightened it out and re-clipped it, then gave me a gentle pop on my bottom to send me, blushing, to my desk. My desk was near the back of the classroom, which suited me just fine – I get nervous at the front, feeling like everything I do will get me in trouble.

Once I was sat down Henderson continued what he must have been talking about before we arrived, something about Submissive job applications. I promptly zoned out. No employer would ever willingly take on an un-mated submissive with a criminal background. I started doodling on the worksheet in front of me, drawing an elephant wearing roller-skates and a dog in a curly wig.

“Benjamin.” I was jolted out of my daydreaming by the sound of my name, causing me to drop my pencil and hurriedly grab it before it fell on the floor.

“Yes, sir?” I replied nervously, realising the whole class was now looking at me, with Henderson wearing a disapproving frown.

“What did I just ask you?” He asked sternly, and I sunk a little lower in my seat, trying to subtly look over at Mike for a clue.

“Eyes front.” He barked, making me jump again.

“I don’t know sir.” I replied quietly, twisting my hands together under my desk.

“How many times do I need to tell you to _pay attention_ , Benjamin!” He was obviously annoyed, his volume rising and eyes narrowing. I didn’t know what to say so I stayed silent, avoiding eye contact and studying the woodgrain of my desk instead.

He finally broke the silence, but my heart quickly sunk at his words, “Up front.”

I slowly got to my feet and shuffled to the front of the classroom, blushing in embarrassment, and my bum clenching nervously. When I reached him he took hold of my arm firmly and turned me to the side, before landing five hard smacks across my backside with the palm of his hand. My bottom was stinging when he finished, but I was surprised and grateful I hadn’t gotten any worse. It was still humiliating to have to face the rest of the class, some of whom were giving me looks of sympathy, with others smirking cruelly.

“Can somebody please enlighten Benjamin on what we have been discussing?” Henderson asked the class, keeping a hold of my upper arm. Andrew Humphrey’s hand shot up, desperate to prove he had been listening. Like anyone would doubt it.

“Andrew.” Henderson nodded for him to go ahead, and Andrew beamed with pride. He was probably in his early thirties, short and over-weight, with a high-pitched voice – he was always over-eager to please, desperate to be useful in any way. I’ve never been able to guess how he landed himself in a correction facility, I can’t imagine him as anything less than a perfect sub.

“You were telling us about ways to make ourselves look as promising as possible to employers once we leave the facility. And how we can make the most of our time here by improving our skill sets, especially in domestics. You were also just telling us about a possible trip we might be taking to a submissive recruitment centre, and-”

“Thank you, Andrew. I’m glad at least one of you has been paying attention.” Andrew beamed, over the moon at receiving some praise. I had to stop myself rolling my eyes. I’ve never been a ‘good’ submissive, never taken enjoyment from following orders or found it easy to be attentive and well behaved. I hate being treated like a child, ordered around and patted on the head with a ‘good boy’ for following orders. I’ll never be rehabilitated into the kind of sub society wants, meek and eager to please; it just isn’t me. I don’t _try_ to get in trouble or do or say the wrong things, I just can’t help it.

Henderson let go of my arm, but only to collect the punishment stool from the corner and move it over to the side of his large wooden desk at the front of the room.

“You can sit here from now on Benjamin, where I can keep an eye on you.” My heart sank and I blushed even more heavily, keeping my head down as I sat on the stool.

“Any more trouble out of you and I’ll give you a proper spanking, do you understand?” He said sternly, loud enough for the whole class to hear. I could hear muffled giggles and stared at my hands when I replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Henderson moved back to the whiteboard, “As I was saying, the recruitment centre is set up to help unmated submissives find employment, and they have offered to give one to one advice to each of you on what areas of development you should be focusing on to help aid you after your release dates.”

I made sure I paid attention through the rest of his talk, despite my grumbling stomach reminding me I had missed breakfast. Finally, he stopped talking, directing us to complete our worksheets, thinking about our skills and what jobs we could be qualified for. Like anybody would choose to employ me, even if I had all the experience in the world and an impressive degree. Henderson was wasting his time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part of the story was harder to write than I expected, and was becoming very long... so I've decided to split it and post this chapter now whilst I finish the next part, which hopefully will be up tomorrow :) Thank you for the lovely comments! x

I picked up my pencil, filled in my name at the top, and read the first question: _Have you got any employment experience?_ I didn’t think petty theft and drug trafficking is the kind of employment Henderson meant, so I circled ‘no’. I managed to bluff my way through the rest of the questions, writing a load of bullshit. Then I read the final question and felt myself getting angry.

_What is your dream job?_

Like any sub is able to have their ‘dream job’. Like we all dream about scrubbing toilets and chopping vegetables for the rest of our lives? I gritted my teeth, clenching my pencil. _My dreem job is to be lawer and fite for submisve rites._ I wrote in my messy scrawl, before slamming down my pencil and crossing my arms angrily. Like any of this shit matters, I told myself, like we’re going to walk out of here and suddenly be accepted by society. Like we won’t all end up homeless on the streets. I’ve got six years left on my sentence as it is, I won’t even be out of here any time soon.

“Are you finished Benjamin?” Henderson asks, looking up from his pile of marking. Most of the class were still scribbling away, and he seemed surprised, that I of all people, was finished quickly.

“Yes, sir.” I replied, my anger receding, quickly being replaced by nervousness.

“Come here, and let me have a look.” I got up and stood next to his chair, handing him my sheet. He read it slowly, correcting my many spelling mistakes in his red pen but saying nothing. I twisted my hands as he got to the last question, wishing I’d just made up some bullshit like I had for the rest. But he didn’t say anything, just corrected some more spellings.

“Well done, Benjamin. It seems you _can_ focus if you put your mind to it. I would like you to copy out your answers again on a new sheet with the correct spellings, whilst everyone else finishes.” He told me, handing me it back to me with a new sheet.

I blinked, dumbly taking the sheets and sitting back down on the stool. Why hadn’t he said something? I was surprised, most doms and gens would have at very least laughed at and ridiculed a sub who said they wanted to be a lawyer. All Henderson had done was correct my spelling. I didn’t understand why, but decided to just get on with copying the sheet out and be thankful I wasn’t in trouble.

The rest of the class was fairly boring, and I when the lunch bell rang loudly I eagerly waited for Henderson to dismiss us. I felt like he took an extraordinarily long time to stop talking to Logan, who he had been helping, and return to the front of the room. All I could think about was food, and getting to the front of the queue in the canteen so I wasn’t stuck with soup _again_.

He let everyone go by row, which meant I was the last one left in the room, sat impatiently at the side of his desk. I wondered if he’d forgotten about me when he started going around the room and collecting completed worksheets from the desks. I didn’t know whether to say anything, making eye contact with Mike and George, who were waiting for me in the corridor, peering through the door. George mouthed ‘ask to go’ at me, and Mike nodded encouragingly. Steeling myself, I decided to follow their advice.

“Sir?” I asked, trying to sound confident.

“I haven’t forgotten about you Benjamin,” he paused, turning to look at the door, “Boys, please close the door and run along to lunch, I’ll send Benjamin to join you shortly.” Mike and George both gave a quick “yes, sir” and did as they were told, closing the door and leaving me to my fate.

Instead of giving me a loud telling off like I expected, he continued collecting the worksheets in silence, leaving me to fidget nervously on my stool. It was only once he had finished collecting them all and ordered them into neat piles, that he finally acknowledged me.

“I kept you behind because I thought we should have a talk, Benjamin.” He said, sitting down at his desk and turning to face me. He didn’t seem angry or annoyed, more concerned than anything. But I still couldn’t help but swallow at the word ‘talk’, feeling like a young child in trouble.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said gently, seeming to sense my uneasiness, “I just wanted to ask if anything has happened recently? I know you find it hard to concentrate,” he said ruefully, “but you’ve been very distracted in the past week or so. I just wanted to check if anything is bothering you?"

I couldn’t help but be surprised, I don’t think any dom has ever asked if anything is bothering me. Even before I was officially classed as a sub when I was thirteen, my small size had made my classification clear from the age of four or five, where I was dwarfed by most other kids my age. Even my teachers at school, all doms and gens, never asked about my bruises.

“Nothing’s wrong, Sir. I’m sorry, I’ll try to concentrate better.” I told him, semi-truthfully. Nothing really had happened out of the ordinary, except the appearance of Roberts and Delaney. Truthfully, I was probably distracted because I was hungry, more than the violence I had witnessed. Although it’s rare for punishments to happen so abruptly in the early hours of the morning, violence is still very common in the facility, and it was by no means the first time I’ve witnessed a brutal punishment. And Henderson was right, I have been distracted over the past week, probably two. Nothing exactly _happened_ , I guess. Just, I think I finally realised there’s no point. It’s hard to make an effort to learn ‘how to be a good sub’ when I realised I’d end up homeless anyway.

My brother, Jon, is the only reason I haven’t been on the streets since 13 anyway, when my classification was confirmed and my Mum chucked me out. Jon took me in and let me sleep in his spare room, where I was fed and clothed in return for helping him sell drugs. He’s in prison now though, not just with petty theft and drug trafficking, but murder. He and his friends killed a seventeen year old dom in an armed robbery gone wrong. I won’t ever see him again, he’s in for life. Not that I’d really want to, there was never any love lost between us. But it does mean I have nowhere left to go, it’s not like my Mum would welcome me in with open arms, and my Dad is dead; committed suicide when I was three.

“Are you sure, Benjamin? Nobody is bullying you? You haven’t had any bad news from your family?” Henderson broke me out my depressing thoughts, still looking concerned. Whilst most of the guards could be classed as bullies, as well as some of the teachers, I didn’t think that’s what he meant.

“Honestly, I’m fine sir.” I told him, my stomach grumbling loudly.

“Ok, well I’ll let you join your friends for lunch,” he smiled as my stomach growled again, this time louder, “but if there’s ever anything wrong I want you to know that you can talk to me and you won’t get in trouble, ok?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” I called as I scarpered out the room, already thinking of lunch and hoping they hadn’t run out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get this chapter up, I ended up re-writing it and changing a few things I had planned, but I hope you all enjoy it! This chapter gives you an insight into Henderson's POV, and the next one will be a mix between him and Ben :) Thank you for all the wonderful comments, it's really kept me motivated to continue xx

I watched Benjamin scarper out the room as if being chased, and I found myself smiling fondly, watching the strap of his oversized dungarees slip down one shoulder. I couldn’t help but feel like I was failing the boy though, and that’s what he was. Biologically he was a grown man, twenty-one years old, but I struggled to see him as anything other than a troubled young boy.

I opened my laptop to check my emails, trying to distract myself. There were a few junk emails that I deleted, one from my brother Jamie, asking me to babysit in a couple of weeks, which I quickly replied to, telling him Jared and I would love to. The next one was from Marcus Newman, my boss and the warden of the facility. I clicked on it unwillingly, not exactly excited to read another email about cuts and cost savings, with my students becoming more and more disadvantaged.

_Dear Staff,_

_I am calling an urgent meeting today at 5pm in the conference room, everyone’s attendance would be much appreciated. In order for the meeting to start promptly, I would ask all inmates to be returned to their cells at 4.30pm, guided by their afternoon instructor._

_Thank you for your co-operation in this urgent matter,_

_Marcus Newman_

_Warden_

I re-read the short message, wondering what had happened for Marcus to call such a short-notice meeting. What could be so urgent? I even went on my phone to check news headlines, in case there had been new developments in sub welfare rulings. There was nothing however, a protest about growing unemployment, a warehouse fire, and a breakthrough in a rare disease I’d never heard of. Nothing that I could think would impact the facility, which meant Marcus was either exaggerating the seriousness of the matter, or it was so important it was being kept away from the press.

Either way, I thought I’d better warn Jared that I would probably be home late. I sent him a quick message, which he replied to quickly, telling me he would keep dinner hot and not to worry about being late. I still don’t know how I managed to marry such an amazing man. I thank my lucky stars every day, that my parents decided to move into a house on Jared’s street when we were teens.

I ate the neatly packed lunch bag Jared had made for me that morning, whilst I finished off some marking and preparing for my afternoon class, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Benjamin. I worried about what would happen to him in the outside world when he was finally released. I’ve read his file, I know he doesn’t have anyone to go to now his brother is in prison – not that I’m not happy he’s away from the violent murderer. But I can’t help but feel sick thinking of Benjamin alone and vulnerable out on the streets, pretending to be tough whilst still naive and innocent. I’m being silly, I tell myself, he’s still got six years on his sentence before he’s released, a lot can change in that time. Then I come across his misspelled worksheet, re-reading ‘ _My dreem job is to be a lawer and fite for submisve rites’,_ and a wave of protectiveness washes over me again.

I’m thankful when the bell signals the end of lunch and the inmates only free time; my afternoon class quietly walk in and take their seats, helping take my mind off the small boy with messy chestnut brown curls.  

* * * 

When the clock reaches twenty-five past I start asking everyone to pile their work on my desk, and form a line. The walk to the different cell blocks is uneventful, despite some initial grumblings when I told them they were going to their cells early. A few warning looks quickly stopped the grumblings from turning into whines, and I was happy when I finally dropped off Elliot, the only member of the class in Cell Block E.

“Sir?” Elliot asked me as I locked his cell.

“Yes?”

“Has something bad happened?” He asked nervously, clearly wishing he hadn’t spoken.

I softened my voice, thinking I had probably said yes more snappily than I’d intended, “Everything is okay Elliot, the warden just wanted to call a staff meeting, I’m sure it isn’t anything bad. I’ll see you in class tomorrow, don’t worry.” I placated him, seeing his tense face relax at my words.

“Thanks, Sir.” He said as I left, and I felt guilty at my empty promise. For all I knew the facility could be shutting down; the pressure on the government from anti-submissive rights activists seems to be growing stronger and stronger. 

* * *

The conference room was full of an unsettling, nervous energy, the atmosphere so thick it could be cut with a knife. By the time the last member of staff arrived it was almost ten past five, and Marcus was clearly eager to start, checking his watch in an irritated manner.

“Everyone here?” He asked Brenda, his secretary, who had been checking everyone off on her ever-present clipboard.

“Only Harold and Gillian are missing, and both are away on holiday.” She quickly replied.

“Good. Thank you, Patricia.” Brenda blushed, lowering her head and studying the clipboard, pretending not to notice his slip – Patricia was his last overworked and underpaid secretary.

“Well, now that everyone is here we better get started,” he continued, oblivious of his mistake, “I’m sure you have all been wondering why I’ve called you here today on such short notice, and the top and bottom of it is I was called into a meeting myself this morning, also at very short notice.” He seemed to pause for dramatic effect before continuing, “the board of trustees has informed me of a new program they would like to start implementing very shortly, following on from the program’s success in a number of other facilities.”

The tension started to dissipate rapidly, everyone relaxing, once we realised nothing terrible had happened. Now everyone was simply curious, wondering what the new program could be. It had to be something big for everyone to be called together for a meeting, especially at short notice. Normally things are slowly passed down the lines of communication, its rare the warden bothers to get everyone together to keep us all informed of changes.

“Some of you may have heard about the Adoption Program,” a few murmurs started to break out, and there were a few muffled gasps, “which is what the board would like to start implementing. The plan is to start with a small number of inmates that have little or no contact with family on the outside, and possibly building in scale depending on its success.”

He paused again, taking a drink from his cup of water. I had no idea what the Adoption Program was, and I seemed to be in the majority, with most of us looking slightly confused.

“The Adoption Program began only last July, in Garrick Correctional Facility, and has proved very successful. The program is designed for submissives who are difficult to rehabilitate, not only from a behavioural point of view, but also in terms of support from friends and family. We all know that submissives who are released without close family or friends often return to us within a matter of weeks or months. The program takes these submissives out of the facility and into family homes, giving them stability and the chance for a second childhood. It also has financial benefits, freeing up beds and giving us an income from the adoption charges.”

I couldn’t quite believe what he was saying; they were going to _sell_ some of the inmates? And this had already been approved? It was already happening in other facilities? I could feel of a knot of anger twisting in my stomach, an image of Benjamin being sold away to faceless strangers entering my mind.

“There’s people who want to _pay_ to look after a convicted submissive? And treat them like their child?” Wes, one of the guards, asked in disbelief.

“Believe it or not, with the sharp decline in birth rates over the past couple of decades, and the long and complicated process of adopting a real child, there has been an overwhelming demand for the submissives in the programs in the other facilities, termed ‘littles’. The demand is outstripping the supply in most cases, I have no doubts it would be any different here at Marshall. The subs chosen for the program are given a new drug, Subtraxerim, developed for the program. It shrinks their bodies down to the size of a child, and reduces their emotional control, making them much more childlike and appealing to prospective adopters.”

Marcus continued answering questions, telling us that G Block would now be used for the Adoption Program, starting in the next week. The board had already organised all the legalities and signed off on the use of the Subtraxerim, and there were already fifteen inmates who had been chosen to be the program’s first littles. A woman called Margaret Lewisham had already been hired to run the program, and would be arriving in the next day or two to begin preparations and start hiring new staff.

I couldn’t believe how fast it all seemed to be happening, and how the board could so easily decide to sell and modify inmates without their consent, despite their submissive status. I thought the whole point of the facility was to _help_ submissives, not to sell them for financial gain. That’s what I’ve dedicated my last five years to, trying to _help_ them. And now the ones who are seen as difficult or challenging, are just going to be _sold?_

My blood felt like it was visibly pulsing, and I had to stop myself from joining in the conversation around me, knowing I would lose my temper. It’s not like I could change the warden’s mind, it had already been decided by, and implemented by, the board. There was no changing it. I kept seeing Benjamin’s face, scared and vulnerable. A small voice in my head whispered, _Jared would love him, he would fit in perfectly, just the three of us_ , _a family_ , but I quickly ignored it, reminding myself sternly that Benjamin wouldn’t want it, he wouldn’t be happy. It would be wrong, selfish. I felt like a hypocrite; angry at others for buying an unwilling _human being_ , yet imagining taking Benjamin home to my husband, wrapping him up safe and warm and tucking him up in bed.

Then Marcus asked Brenda to hand out some sheets, filled with new procedures and times and dates. I flicked to the last page and couldn’t move, looking down the list of inmates selected for the program, and seeing **BENJAMIN MOSS – 98427** neatly typed half way down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to get this chapter out quicker than I expected, and I've already started the next chapter so hopefully chapter 6 won't be long! Hope you enjoy it, comments/kudos are always appreciated xx

I drove home slowly, trying to work out what I was going to tell Jared. I’d told him about Benjamin before; his short attention span and ability to get himself in trouble is the most frequent focus when I mention him, which always makes Jared laugh fondly, or shake his head in exasperation. Last week, when I told him Benjamin had fallen and twisted his ankle again because he was swinging on his chair, Jared had acted like a mama bear; making sure he’d been taken to the nurse and looked after. He’d not been happy when I told him I’d spanked him for swinging on his chair again, telling me the ‘poor boy’ was already punished enough and a swat would have sufficed. He ignored me all night until I bribed him with his favourite ice cream, and the next day he packed me a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch, which he gives me when I’ve annoyed him, ‘forgetting’ I hate it.

As much as I know Jared would love to have Benjamin in our home, I don’t know how to tell him about the adoption program. How do I tell him that we can have a family, but that it will be without Benjamin’s consent? That I’ve spoken to Marcus already and there’s no way to have him withdrawn from the program, that if we don’t take him somebody else surely will. That we have until tomorrow to decide.

I can hear Jared singing along to the radio when I open the front the door, and I find myself smiling despite my nerves, feeling a rush of love and affection. I walk down the hallway and lean against the open kitchen door, watching him dance around and sing happily as he makes up our lunches for tomorrow.

It takes him a minute or so to notice me, and when he does he grins broadly, coming over to give me a soft kiss and drag me over to dance with him.

It’s not until a couple of hours later, after we’ve eaten and washed up, and are lounging in front of the tv in sweats, that I decide to tell him about Benjamin. He’s as angry as I was when I explain to him what the adoption program does, and how it’s already started in other facilities. When I tell him Benjamin’s name is on the list, that I’ve talked to Marcus and there’s no way of getting him out the program, he goes quiet.

“What do we do? We can’t let him be _sold_ to strangers, _given drugs,_ Will!” He bursts out after a few minutes, his sage green eyes glistening with unshed tears of anger and frustration.

“I know, darling.” I tell him, drawing him closer to me and running my fingers through his hair, “Like I said, I stayed behind after the meeting to ask Marcus if there was any way of getting Benjamin out of the program, but he said the names had already been selected by the board and approved, that they couldn’t be changed. But he told me that,” I paused, pushing Jared away gently and making him face me, “he told me that he could give us priority if we wanted him. If we decide we want him, then he said we’ll have to give him our decision tomorrow, or else he won’t be able to guarantee priority. Jared, baby, I know this is a big decision-”

“At least then he won’t be sold away to strangers, at least he knows you, _trusts_ you. Please, Will, can we take him?” Jared interrupts me, a burst of energy, his eyes desperate, “I can’t stand the thought of him, vulnerable and alone, sold away to strangers who could abuse him. Please, Will, I know it’s still wrong, he hasn’t consented, but… at least with us he’d be safe! Please. I haven’t even met the boy, but I see the way you talk about him, and I know you love him; I know you want him safe. With us. I see the way your eyes light up when you talk about him, and… I love him already.”

He’s crying by the time he’s finished, and my own eyes are tearing up. I stop myself, trying to remain level headed, “Baby, of course I want him, and I have no doubts we would both love him as our own,” I cleared my throat, trying to keep thinking logically, “but it’s not as simple as that, we can’t be naive and think we’ll have an instant happy family. Marcus told me we would still have to comply to the program guidelines or face losing him. There would be monthly inspections for the first six months, then every three months for the next two years. We’d have to treat him as a child, even if we opt not to give him the drug. And it would be for life, once he’s in the program there’s no getting out, he wouldn’t be free at the end of his sentence in six years, he’d be with us forever. Even if we wanted to let him go, we couldn’t. He’d be returned to the centre and put up for adoption again. Darling, he’d probably blame us, hate us even.”

“I don’t care, I’m not being naive, I know he’d take his anger out on us, but it wouldn’t stop us loving him. We could show him what a real family is like, give him the love he never had as a child, unconditional. I know he’ll be angry, I know he’ll throw tantrums, and I’m sure he’ll say many things to try and push us away. But we’ll show him that we still love him no matter what, and eventually he may even believe it.” I studied his face after he finished, seeing the serious determination in his eyes and the firm set of his jaw, and I knew he meant it. In Jared’s mind, Benjamin was already ours.

“Okay, darling. I’ll speak to Marcus first thing in the morning.” I finally allowed myself to feel the excitement and overwhelming love I’d been trying to suppress to think clearly, leaning in to kiss Jared passionately.

* * * Ben’s POV *** 

Thankfully it wasn’t Roberts and Delaney on morning duty when the alarm rang at six, instead I saw a tired and grumpy looking Hanley, and Davison, gentler and quitter than the others, walking up the corridor.

It was Davison doing inspection, and his soft, “Good boy, you can go on to the showers,” afterwards was in sharp contrast to Roberts’ brutal inspection yesterday. Not that it wasn’t still humiliating and degrading, but at least Davison didn’t take any pleasure out of it or make it any worse than it was. The ‘good boy’ still makes me clench my jaw in irritation, but I would happily take that any day over Roberts.

It was just past seven when we got to the dining hall, and I grabbed a plastic cup of water and a bowl of the watery mush they call porridge, before Mike, George and I found an empty table near the back of the room. All three of us ate hungrily in silence until we had finished our meagre portions, and I looked forlornly at my empty bowl, wishing for more. Even though it was bland and watery, and in the outside world I would have turned my nose up at it, I’d missed lunch as well as breakfast yesterday, and ended up with a bowl of soup for dinner. I was still hungry, and tempted to try and sneak into the queue and get another bowl.

It was George who broke the silence, looking sadly at his own empty bowl, “I miss my mum’s cooking. Never thought I’d be dreaming about soggy apple pie and burnt sausages,” he laughed humorlessly.

“I never thought I’d miss school lunches.” Mike joins in, licking his plastic spoon.

Before I can start reminiscing about dry jam sandwiches, Logan, Evan and Cody join us with their own bowls of mush.

“Hey, did you guys hear about last night?” Cody, Logan’s slightly irritating but good-natured cell mate asks us straight away, obviously desperate to share his gossip.

“You mean why we were put in our cells so early?” George asks, intrigued. I can’t help but be interested too, we’ve never been taken to our cells so early, or taken out for dinner so late – it was gone seven by the time we were taken to the dining hall. People had been speculating wildly, suggesting there had been a breakout or someone had died.

“I overheard Charlie from C Block telling some of his friends when we were queuing for dinner last night, he said he’d overheard some guards talking quietly near his cell before we were let out. Apparently, there’s a new program starting, going to be in G Block. All the staff, guards and everything, were called to a meeting about it by the warden, so it must be real important.” He whispered dramatically.

“A new _program_? It must be something more important than that if the warden called all the staff for a meeting.” Mike scoffed, “He probably misheard them.”

“I think Charlie’s right,” Logan disputed, “I managed to talk to my sister last night through the fence, when we were meant to be going back to our cells. She told me the same thing happened in the women’s wing, and that she’d heard a guard talking about a new program in G Block too.”

“I think it must be something serious,” Evan said, pushing his mush around his bowl nervously, “I wonder what the new program is for.”

“If it is a new program then we’ll hear about it soon, and it can’t be anything terrible – it’s probably another ‘how to cook 101’ thing, or ‘how to obey with a smile’ stuff. Just the usual crap.” I said, doubtful it was going to be as serious as everyone seemed to be thinking.

“I hope so.” Evan said, still stirring around his mush so it looked even less appetising.

“Are you gonna eat that?” I asked him, my stomach grumbling.

“You can have it, it’s just making me feel sick.” He pushed the bowl across the table towards me and I smiled happily, digging in and giving him a garbled ‘thanks’ through a mouthful.

I was just scraping the bowl clean with my finger when the alarm blared again, which meant it had reached eight and we all had to make our way to our designated classes. It was Thursday, which meant I had Ainsworth. Cody and Evan disappeared to find friends from their own groups, but Mike, George, Logan and I rose from the table together, joining the throng of others making their way to different blocks and rooms. It could almost be mistaken for a school, the way the facility is run, if you ignored the guards and the locks and cells.

We walk quickly to class, and take our seats in silence, waiting for Ainsworth to arrive. Nobody wants to be caught talking when she arrives. Ainsworth is probably my least favourite instructor, although Beckett runs a close second. She looks almost motherly, in her late forties with greying hair always pulled back in a ponytail, and always wearing a thickly knitted and brightly coloured cardigan. Despite her harmless appearance, she’s one of the strictest instructors in the facility – if you’re ill and you cough too loudly, then you’ll find yourself with a demerit and a nose in the corner. I push any thoughts of a new program out my mind when she arrives, lecturing us for the full four-hour class on etiquette and addressing dominants and neutrals correctly, making sure we _know our place_ , as she puts it.

The rest of the day is as boring as usual, although I managed to get to lunch quick enough to get a cheese sandwich instead of the usual bland bowl of soup. And in the usual two hours after dinner that are reserved for workshops I decide to go to the gardens for some fresh air, learning how to properly prune and look after the plants.

Walking back to the cell with Mike just before eight, he was telling me about a letter he’d gotten from his sister, saying she was going to come for visiting hours on Saturday. I couldn’t help but get a faint surge of jealousy, wishing I had family who sent me letters and wanted to visit me.

I was so caught up in my thoughts about my own family, that Mike had to grab me by the arm before I walked straight into Henderson, who had just come out of an office. There was a man with him who I’d never seen before, slightly shorter but still tall, with short blonde hair and a relaxed, kind face. Both were looking at me strangely, not angrily, but almost in shock. The blonde man started to smile at me with, well, an absurd amount of happiness towards someone who nearly knocked into him.

“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Sorry, we better get to our cell before the alarm.” I tugged on Mike’s hand and we hurried past them, staying quiet until we were back in our cell and both sitting on our beds.

“That was so weird, they both looked like they’d been hit over the head.” Mike whispered to me, and I nodded in agreement.

“I wonder who the guy with him was?” I asked, curious.

“Dunno. Maybe a new instructor? He looked nice though, hope he is a new instructor.” Mike mused, and I nodded again. He had looked friendly and kind, not the usual for the staff at the facility. I hoped he was a new instructor.

We played cards for a while on Mike’s bed, then just chatted quietly before we got changed into our nightshirts and climbed into bed before lights out. I lay awake in bed long after the lights had gone out, listening to Mike’s slow breathing and distant snores from another cell; unable to get the image of Henderson and the blonde, green-eyed stranger out my mind.


End file.
